


The Love We Have For You, Simon Snow

by lovelessinmanhattan



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family Angst, Family Feels, Love, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 00:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessinmanhattan/pseuds/lovelessinmanhattan
Summary: Simon sighs, heavily. I can tell he’s tired of all this. (I am, too. I just wanted to sleep, and instead we get a Visiting. And we don’t even know who’s Visiting us!)“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t know you. We,” he gestures towards me, “don’t know who you are.”The woman begins to speak, and just before she says it, I realise who she is.“My name is Lucy Salisbury. And I’m your mother.”





	The Love We Have For You, Simon Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Liz_Cavs11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz_Cavs11/gifts).



I can’t sleep on this fucking train. 

Despite the warmth radiating from Simon, I’m still too cold (I’m practically shivering at this point), and it’s too crowded, and the lights over head are too bright for my liking.

I’m hoping that I fall asleep fairly easily when I get home. All I need after today is a good night’s sleep, though I can’t say I’ve had one of those in years. Literal years.

My sleeping problems started whilst I was at Watford.

I had horrible nightmares at school. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, images of fire and fangs still fresh in my head. All I could dream about was that night in August, when I was Turned, when my mother died at the hands of vampires.

I developed insomnia soon after.

At first I thought it was a coping strategy for the nightmares. If I wasn’t asleep, I wouldn’t be able to dream, and those fucking memories wouldn’t make themselves present every damn night. 

Then Fiona told me she thought it was because of the whole vampire thing. Said that she thinks they’re nocturnal. (I gave her shit when she told me that, but now I think she might be right.)

Snow wakes me up early, at the ass crack of dawn, and my vampirism keeps me up throughout most of the night. Between the two, I don’t really get a lot of sleep.

Simon doesn’t either, the poor thing.

During our years at school, he also suffered tremendously due to recurring nightmares. At nights, our room would smell of smoke, and his thick magic would fill the air.

So many nights I thought I was going to give in, to comfort him and hold his hand, assure him that whatever it was, it was just a dream and that it couldn’t hurt him.

But I never did. 

I do now, though, and I have been ever since that Christmas at the White Chapel. 

He’s still plagued by those nightmares. He tosses and turns and cries out in the middle of the night, shouting at the Mage and desperately trying to keep the goatherd alive.

It breaks my heart every time it happens.

At least I’m there for him now, unlike at Watford. At least now I can hold him tight and assure him he’s safe in my arms.

I find that the nightmares don’t come as often ever since we began sleeping together. Simon and I find each other’s presence calming because we _know_ that we’re right there, by each other’s side the whole night.

And Simon’s damn good at cuddling. Not to mention, he still runs warm. He’s my personal heater.

I’m hoping, though, that tonight will be one of the nights when Simon and I both sleep decently well. We’ve just spent the whole day in London, drinking expensive wine and buying books we’ll never read. I’m crossing all of my fucking fingers that we’re tuckered out enough to sleep through the night.

It was my idea to take Simon into London for our wedding anniversary. We live just outside of the city, in the suburbs, so the train ride in isn’t that long. 

It’s always enjoyable for both of us, getting to visit London.

Simon never got to go much when he was a kid. The care homes rarely did outings with the children, and if they did go out, it was a few mere miles. Simon’s said a few times now that none of the places they visited compared to London. 

He fell in love with the city when he lived there with Bunce. He’s always adored the hustle and bustle of London, the crowded streets, and the assortment of shops and restaurants. (He’s also fascinated with the Tube, which both Bunce and I find incredibly amusing.)

Plus, Simon is bloody fucking obsessed with the food. He stops at nearly every bakery we encounter, only to see if they have sour cherry scones. He says he hasn’t found any that compare to Watford’s (not yet, anyways), and that he won’t give up until he does. (I rolled my eyes at him when he told me this.)

We stopped for lunch when we first got into London, at a small cafe we both enjoy. It was quiet and peaceful, and the food truly was delicious. After that, I dragged Snow to the library, and a bookstore. He complained, but eventually shut up and found a book he wanted. In retaliation, he forced me into a bakery and bought us both scones. Sour cherry, of course. I’m convinced Snow has memorised which shops sell sour cherry scones. (He also bought me a coffee, despite claiming that my coffee order is long and ridiculous.) (It isn’t.) 

Overall, it really was a perfect day. It always is with Simon, when it’s just the two of us. I treasure those days the most, when it’s just us in the streets of a big city, hand-in-hand. No demons, or monsters, or Humdrums to fight. Just us and the world.

It’s fucking weird, sometimes, to think that we both lived through the war. That we both lived long enough to see 30.

I was sure that Simon was going to kill me. He was, too, I think. The Mage had convinced us both that I was to die at the hands of Simon Snow.

But instead, I get to hold his hand and love him the way I’ve wanted to since I was fifteen, when I first realised that I did love him.

The train has stopped, so I glance out the window to see how many stops we have left. Only a few more. 

We’ll be home soon enough. 

Simon is already asleep, his head on my shoulder and face nuzzled into my shirt. He shifts in his sleep and grabs my hand in his. I cup them together and stroke his hand with my thumb, gently rubbing small circles. 

He’s always so fucking exhausted, Simon is. 

He works in a care home, just twenty minutes away from our flat, and hopes to improve the conditions the kids live in. 

He knows firsthand how goddamn hard it is to live in one of those homes. They’re never served enough food. They’re given hardly any room, and only a few of them have personal belongings.

And they’re all so fucking depressed and discouraged. 

Simon’s told me all about his daydreams, how he’d always imagined what getting adopted would be like, always imagined who his parents would be and what they would say. But Simon was forced to admit to himself that those were only daydreams, mere fantasies he had conjured up in his mind to give him hope.

It’s a good fit for Simon. Working in the care homes. He’s great with children and truly does want the best for them. He knows what to do to make things better, and he won’t stop until he fixes things.

My job is much easier than Simon’s, and I feel awful about it most of the time. I can’t complain too much, though, since I am doing what I love.

I teach violin lessons all day whilst Simon breaks his back at the care home. My father tried to get me to go to school for something practical, like business or economics, but I refused. I couldn’t see myself in an office, filing taxes from 9 to 5. I’d be fucking miserable if I had done that. 

I didn’t know what to do after I had finished Watford. There was nothing I was particularly interested in, and I certainly had no idea what I wanted to do for a living.

Simon had suggested a few months before Uni began that I teach lessons. He knew I was good at violin, and also was aware that I had been teaching Mordelia.

“You’d do great,” he assured me, though I didn’t believe him.

I pondered the idea for two months and was hesitant to do anything about it. It was only when I was about to start school that I decided not to go. I told my father I would take a gap year, teach lessons, and see how I did.

It went well, much better than I could’ve anticipated. In fact, I liked teaching well enough that I told my father that’s what I would be doing with my life. The pay isn’t great, but I genuinely enjoy teaching, and it’s the only thing I can see myself doing. 

I’ve even taken up the bass, per Simon’s request. He wanted me to teach him some, so I did. He’s shit at it, we both know, but he likes trying. Simon and I both blame his busy work schedule that keeps him from being a decent bass player. He’s gone all day, and most of our nights are spent on the couch, watching a movie and eating dinner. He’s too tired to do anything else.

So it’s no surprise to me that Simon sleeps the whole train ride home. His head is still on my shoulder, so I rest my chin on his golden curls, taking his scent in.

Even after all these years, he still smells smokey, almost like a campfire. (Though, he smells more like me now. Cedar and bergamot. He _finally_ uses the same products as I do.) 

I nudge Simon awake a few stops before our station.

He stirs a bit and sits up, groggily rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

“What time is it, Baz?” he mumbles, laying his head against my chest. 

“Nearly one in the morning,” I answer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him closer to my side. “We’re almost home, love.”

“Good,” he says. His words are muffled, as he nuzzles his face in my chest. “’m tired.”

I smile at him, fondly, and my heart skips a beat at the sight of him. “I know.” 

I continue to rub small circles on the back of his hand until we get to our station. When the train slows to a stop, I lace our fingers together. We both rise from our seats and when the train doors open, we step onto the platform.

“This way to the escalators,” I say, as if he doesn’t know where we’re going. (Sometimes, I really don’t think he knows where he’s going. Snow’s got the worst sense of direction. He could get lost in a Tescos if he tried hard enough.)

“Oi, stop the teasing.”

I turn and look at him. “I wasn’t teasing you.” 

“Mhm, sure you weren’t.” Simon gives me a grin as we step onto the escalators.

“You’d know if I were teasing you. I’d make it clear.”

He smiles at me, the same way I smile at him when he’s sleepy or tipsy. The same way I smile at him when he does something that reminds me just how much I love him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, holding a hand over his mouth as he yawns.

The walk to our flat isn’t horribly long. It takes us about 20 minutes to get home, and as soon as we get in the door, Simon makes a beeline for the loo. I go to our bedroom and change into silk pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt. (Simon still makes fun of me about my pyjama bottoms. Says the silk is posh and whatnot.) (He secretly likes them, though. I catch him wearing them sometimes, the wanker.)

Snow emerges from the bathroom a moment later, and tosses his dirty clothes aside, throwing them in the laundry basket.

“Today was a good day,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, then sitting down on the edge of the bed.

I sit down as well, drinking in the sight of him. (He still sleeps shirtless. It drives me mad.) “Yeah, it was.”

“We should do it more,” he says, moving to get under the covers.

“What, visit London?”

He nods his head excitedly, a golden curl falling down on his forehead.

“We could always move into the city,” I suggest. “I’ve hardly touched my trust fund.”

“The city overwhelms me, sometimes. All those people. I like being able to come and go as I please. Spend a day in the lively city, but spend the night in the quiet of our home.”

“That’s quite alright,” I say, pulling the duvet over us both. “I like where we live now.”  
Simon looks around our room with a smile, then says, “Me too.” His eyes soon flutter shut and his breathing evens out as he drifts off.

“Goodnight, Simon,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well.”

 _You deserve it._

***

It’s bright out when I wake up.

I check the clock for the time.

_3:24._

Something’s not right.

I sit up faster than I’d like, my vision blurry and head dizzy. I scan the room rapidly, eyes darting back and forth. There’s a light, just outside our window, so I reach over Simon and snatch my wand from our nightstand, holding it out in defence.

Simon stirs as I sit up, pushing himself up on his elbows and looking up at me worriedly. 

“What’s happening?” he mumbles, his words slurred from drowsiness. He rubs his eyes then looks at me, confused, an eyebrow poorly arched. (He got that from me.) And then he notices the bright light just outside our window.

His first instinct is to attack.

I watch as he holds a hand over his hip, and watch his mouth moves as he mutters the incantation to the Sword of Mages. It’s still a habit of his, trying to summon his sword, even twenty years after he lost his magic.

Soon, though, Simon remembers that the sword won’t come for him, removing his hand from where it was hovering. He tries backing away from the light, scooting closer and closer towards the headboard of the bed.

“Do you know any shielding spells?” Simon asks at the sight of my wand. He seems desperate and panicked, and so fucking helpless. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do now that he can’t fight whatever’s showed up at our bedroom window at three in the morning.

I nod and start spelling us safe. “ _Safe and Sound. Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby. Deflector Shields on Maximum._ ”

“Oh, so you’ve seen _Star Trek_ , but not fucking _Star Wars_?”

“Snow, this is not the right time for this conversation. _Get Ready to Shield Yourself_.”

“How strong are those?”

“I don’t bloody know. Strong enough, I hope.”

We both look at the window, at the light that’s hovering outside of it. It starts to move now, and it seems to float right through the wall.

“What kind of fucking monster are we dealing with?!” Simon groans.

“I. Don’t. Fucking. Know. I was hoping, actually, that we _wouldn’t_ have to deal with a bloody monster tonight, but look how that turned out.”

Simon rolls his eyes at me, but under the cover I can feel him reaching for my hand. I take his in mine, squeezing gently. He looks up at me and sighs, then focuses his attention back on the monster. 

“I don’t like this, Baz,” he says. “I really don’t.”

“I don’t either.”

I wish I could do more to help. But I’ve no damn clue what this thing is, and not knowing the creature makes it fucking hard to defeat.

All I can do for now is hold onto Simon. His hand is shaking in mine, his whole body quaking in fear as the light moves closer toward us. I lower my wand, feeling almost as helpless as Simon, wrapping my arms around him defensively.

The least I can do for Simon in the face of danger is try to protect him. But in this moment, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do that. 

But then the light begins to dim, and the silhouette of a woman begins to take shape.

And that’s when I realise what’s happening.

“It’s a Visiting, Simon,” I whisper in his ear, rubbing circles on the small of his back. With my other hand, I run my fingers through his golden curls, trying my best to calm him. He relaxes a little, but still stares up at me with worried eyes.

“Who is it?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“I...I don’t know.”

For a moment, I think it’s my mother. Maybe we didn’t do what she wanted us to. Maybe her killer does still walk, and she expects us to avenge her. 

Or maybe she just has more to say to me. Maybe she’s here to tell me how if she were alive, I’d be dead. For all I know, she’s here to tell me how much of a fucking disappointment I am. 

I push that thought aside, though, and try to convince myself that my mother might be here to tell me how much she loves me. That she’s glad I carried on and survived the war, and that she’s proud of who I’ve become.

But, I don’t think it’s her.

I hope it’s not her. 

I want her to finally be at peace, in whatever afterlife awaits Simon and me. (I still don’t know if I’ll properly die. We’ve agreed not to talk about it.) 

“Is it your mother?” Simon asks me.

“I don’t…” I take a moment to examine the figure as it forms. It doesn’t look like her (though, to be fair, the figure doesn’t really look like anything at the moment). “No, I don’t think so.”

“It _must_ be your mum,” he insists. “I mean, it wouldn’t be any of my family. I don’t have anyone.”

He doesn’t know who his parents are. He was left at a care home with nothing but his name, swaddled in a towel on the doorstep. He grew up dreaming of his parents coming for him, but they never did. He got that bastard, the Mage, instead of a proper family, and it makes me so fucking angry how he treated Simon. 

More like a weapon, and less like a person. More like a pawn in his cruel game, and less like a boy. 

That’s all he ever was. A boy.

An orphaned boy, who had no one to turn to but the Mage. Who didn’t know any better than to believe the utter bullshit he came up with.

If I had the chance to re-do our years at school and rescue Simon from the clutches of the Mage, I’d do it in a heartbeat. He didn’t deserve any of the shit he got whilst we were at Watford. 

But, that’s in the past. There’s no going back. No rewind button that turns back time.

I’m trying to give Simon what he deserves now.

Love. 

He deserves so much love.

All I can do is hold him close. “I’m your family.”

Simon goes to say something, but there’s a flash of bright light and suddenly the figure has a defined shape.

It’s a woman, in a long dress that trails across the floor as she walks. She’s broad shouldered and tall, with dark blonde curls tumbling down her back. Her face is covered in freckles and moles, and her eyes are a shade of ordinary blue that I know all too well.

“Simon,” I whisper as I stare at this woman. “She looks a lot like you, you know.”

“What? No, that’s...That can’t be right.”

As I keep glancing at the woman, I find more similarities between her and Simon. They both have the same golden skin, and I notice that her hands are the same as Simon’s. Small, with nimble, slender fingers. (I wonder if her hands are soft like Simon’s. His hands are incredibly soft.)

She’s moving closer toward us, drifting gracefully through the air. Simon watches as the woman moves closer towards us, his eyes wide. Under the covers, his hand is still tightly gripping my own, our fingers laced and locked together.

The figure stands at the end of the bed, as if she’s asking for permission to sit down. I give a curt nod and she seats herself, then turns to face me and Simon.

“My time is short,” she says, her voice raspy. 

Simon squeezes my hand tighter when she first speaks.

She keeps going. 

“I can feel myself fading away already. But, I had to come. I had to come and see you, my rosebud boy.”

“ _Rosebud boy_ ,” Simon whispers to me. “That sounds familiar… Isn’t it what your mother called you? When she visited, that’s what I thought she said.”

“My mother never called me that. At least, I don’t remember her calling me that. And besides, Simon, she doesn’t look like my mother.”

Simon steals a glance at the woman.

“Then who is it?” he asks.

I shrug. (I got that from him.)

He clears his throat. “You seem nice and all, but I think you might be in the wrong place. We don’t know anyone that goes by rosebud boy.”

Her face falls. 

She stands from the bed and walks closer to us, reaching out her hand. “Are you not Simon Snow? I could’ve sworn he lived here.”

Simon’s face pales. “I, uh. Yeah. I’m Simon.”

The woman’s face is flooded with relief, and she smiles at Simon. 

“Simon Snow, my rosebud boy. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you last time. I didn’t have enough magic to come and see you. But, I’m here now. And I’ll stay as long as I can.”

Simon sighs, heavily. I can tell he’s tired of all this. (I am, too. I just wanted to sleep, and instead we get a Visiting. And we don’t even know who’s Visiting us!)

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t know you. _We_ ,” he gestures towards me, “don’t know who you are.”

The woman begins to speak, and just before she says it, I realise who she is. 

“My name is Lucy Salisbury. And I’m your mother.”

I hear Simon gasp next to me. He covers his mouth with hand, and closes his eyes as tears begin streaming down his cheeks. He buries his face in my shirt, and I run my fingers through his hair, resting them at the nape of his neck. 

Lucy, Simon’s mother, watches helplessly. “I don’t understand,” she says, nervously fiddling with her hands.

Simon turns to face her, wiping the tears from his eyes. 

“I…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “I grew up alone, in the care homes. I wasn’t left anything about you or my dad…I always dreamed, though, about what you might be like. And seeing you here, it’s…It’s better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

Lucy smiles at Simon, her eyes watery as well.

“I’m sorry I missed you. The last time you came. I didn’t know who you were. Baz’s mother had come--” He gestures towards me again. “--and I kept hearing voices and assuming it was her. I’m sorry if I’m not what you expected.”

“Oh, child” Lucy says, reaching out towards Simon. He scrambles to get out of bed, rushing to stand at her side. She cups Simon’s cheek in her hand, wiping away his tears.

“I certainly wasn’t expecting a tail and wings,” she says. Simon laughs at that. “But, I’m not disappointed by what I see. In front of me, there is a handsome man. He is clever and loving, and courageous and brave. He is my son, and I know he’s done wonderful things.”

Simon cries harder.

“Your father always told me how extraordinary you’d be. He was convinced the prophecies were true, and that you would be powerful enough to save the World of Mages…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I saved the World of Mages--”

“He saved the World of Mages,” I interrupt. “Without him, I don’t know if there would still be magic.”

“Don’t forget,” Simon says, “that I was the reason for the destruction. For the collapse of the magickal atmosphere.”

“Oh, hush, Snow. You still saved us in the end.”

Lucy turns and looks at me. I meet her gaze, and she smiles. 

“My son,” she whispers. “A hero. Saviour of the World of Mages. I couldn’t be more proud.” 

“Oi, I wasn’t always a saviour-- I was shit at magic,” he chuckles. “I held my wand backward during one of my first lessons. One of the girls in that class, Penelope, told me I was holding it wrong. She helped me through that first lesson. Befriended me and everything. She’s like my sister.”

“She sounds like a lovely person,” Lucy says, gazing fondly at Simon.

Simon tears his eyes away from hers and he sighs, shaking his head. “I’m not some great saviour like you expected. But, I hope you can love me for who I am.”

“Oh, Simon,” Lucy says. “You are my everything. I’ve loved you since the day I set my eyes on you.” She pauses. “That’s why I’m here. So you know I will always love you.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to interrupt them.

So I stay quiet, watching Simon and his mother. 

His _mother._

“And you don’t mind that I’m...That I…” He points at me. 

She stares at him, confused for a moment. Then, she looks down and notices the ring on his finger, and the matching one on mine. 

“I think you’ve made the right choice,” Lucy says. “I think being happy and marrying the person you love is more important than what gender they are.”

She steps away from Simon and walks towards me. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I grimace. “Most of which I’m assuming is bad.” 

“Most of it does shine a negative light upon you. But, I see through that. I see that you’re good underneath all those layers.”

“I like to think that I’ve shed some layers ever since your son and I got together.” I hold out my hand for her to shake. “Basilton Snow-Pitch. It’s a shame I never got to do this properly. Introduce myself.”

She takes my hand, shaking it once. “You seem like quite the gentleman, Basilton. My Simon is very lucky to have you. I can tell you care for him dearly, and as a mother, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for him.”

I smile at Lucy as Simon joins me on the bed again, sitting next to me and resting his head on my shoulder. I feel a tear slip down my cheek. Simon wipes it away.

“I must leave you soon, my rosebud boy,” Lucy says to Simon. “But, I’m glad to be leaving you in the hands of this man. I think he’s perfect for you, and that he’ll love you for all eternity, just as I would. Just as I will, though it’s hard to show my love for you in the after life.”

I think Simon and I are both crying at this point. We’re both so overwhelmed by the love from his mother, and it’s so fucking sad to think she has to leave so soon. 

“I love you, my rosebud boy,” Lucy says, planting a final kiss on Simon’s forehead.

She presses a kiss to my forehead as well, then whispers in my ear, “Take care of him. He deserves all the love you give him.”

I smile at her. “I will.”

She looks at us both, then turns away from us and walks towards the window. I feel Simon take my hand, squeezing it and burying his face in my shoulder.

Then, in an instant, he’s up again, running across the room to where Lucy stands. He tugs on her wrist and she turns around to look at him, worry plastered all over her face.

“Wait!” he says. “You can’t go yet.”

“Simon, I don’t have a lot of time left. I only have so long before I must leave you. What is it, son?”

“I forgot to give you something.”

“I can’t take things with me,” she laughs.

“I wanted to give you this,” he says, wrapping his arms around his mother’s waist, pulling her closer to his side.

They hug like that for a while, then fall to their knees, a mother and son reunited for only a brief moment.

I can only watch as they sit on the floor together, Lucy running her fingers through Simon’s curls as I’ve done so many times before.

_Oh, what I would give for my mother to come back._

And there must be some ghost power that allows Lucy to read minds, because she’s soon beckoning me over with a wave of her hand.

I feel bad about ruining the moment, but nonetheless I join them, kneeling on the floor. Lucy wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer to her. Simon’s hand finds mine, and I give a reassuring squeeze.

It’s a sure sight, the three of us on our bedroom floor at three in the morning. Simon, with his wings and that fucking tail. (It still shocks me senseless, sometimes.) Lucy, all transparent and ghost like, a figure slowly fading away. And me, a real vampire, a perfect replica of Dracula himself. (People comment on the similarities a lot less than you’d think. The only person who brings it up on a day-to-day basis is Snow, the wanker. He also mocks me about the guy from _Twilight_ , Edward Cullen.)

It’s strange to think of how different my life could be.

If Simon had succeeded in doing me in, I’d be dead right now, maybe reunited with my own mother. If I had succeeded in doing Snow in, I reckon he’d be with his mother, as well. They’d have a whole eternity to spend together, no one and nothing to pull them apart. 

But, both Simon and I survived the wars. We lived through all the horror stories we weren’t meant to, and look where we are.

We’re married. Have been for ten years now, and they’ve been the best ten years of my life. We live in the suburbs of the city, just outside of London, in a flat that I’m glad to call home. I get to kiss and hug Simon Snow every fucking day, which seemed to be an impossible reality whilst we were still at Watford. 

Everything is bloody perfect. Almost.

We’re both depressed and sleep deprived, but at least we have each other. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. 

I never thought it would be this good. I honestly didn’t expect to get out of the wars alive, much less with Simon Snow on my arm. 

But it’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’d be a fool if I didn’t say I was grateful for it all. 

And I’m especially thankful for this moment. The present, where Simon and I are hugging his _mother_ , a woman we both thought he’d never get to meet. She’s been so loving of Simon, and so accepting of his decision to be my husband. (I know he was worried about that. That his parents would hate him for being gay. At least we know now that his mother doesn’t.)

Eventually Lucy stands up, offering her hand to help Simon and me up to our feet.

She hugs me once more and presses another kiss to my forehead, then does the same with Simon. Except, her lips linger longer on Simon’s forehead, and the hug between them is longer as well.

It’s because they’ll never see each other again.

Lucy has been watching Simon all these years. She tried to see him once, but fate was cruel and didn’t allow for it.

She’s been existing in the in-between since the Veil last opened. She’s not dead, and she’s certainly not alive. She’s just...a spirit. A spirit who’s been waiting and longing for the Veil to open again, and it finally has.

She’s done what she set out to do. Meet her son.

But, now it’s over. Her time is up, and she has to leave. Forever.

Simon and his mum will never be able to hug again, and she’ll never be able to press kisses to his forehead, or run her fingers through the golden curls I adore.

My heart breaks yet again for Simon Snow.

For the man who never knew his mother, who was thrown into the spotlight as a kid and expected to save the world. For the boy who always emitted a golden glow, despite how fucking cruel and shitty the world was towards him. 

He was ripped from his mother, his father, his _family_ . His chance of living a somewhat normal life. (Not _Normal_ . Simon Snow could never live a Normal life. _Ever._ )

Simon Snow is the boy who defied all odds against him, and rose through the ashes, survived the wars, and lived to tell the tale. He’s stupidly courageous and brave, and so fucking selfless.

He’d give anything to get his parents back. I know he would. Because that’s Simon. He’ll do anything for the people he loves. It doesn’t matter if they’re alive or dead. (Or if they’re a vampire, like me. Or somewhere in between, just like his mum.)

But there’s nothing we can do.

Death is final. No one can change that. We can only try and make the best of our time whilst we have it. 

I’ll be happy knowing that Lucy will finally get to find peace, just like my mother hopefully did. She did what she intended to. Visited her son.

And now she can rest.

Lucy steps away from Simon, her hands still wrapped tightly around his. She reaches up to wipe Simon’s tears away, then places her hands back on her son’s. I watch as they stand like that, hands tightly held together. I watch as their lips move, and I can barely make out what they’re saying to one another.

I decide to stop listening.

I watch as Simon throws his hands around Lucy’s waist one last time, and watch as her silhouette fades away, turning to mist in the dark of our bedroom. 

Soon, Lucy’s gone, and all that’s left is Simon standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around himself. 

I take a step closer to Simon, closing the short distance that was between us and tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder. He turns at my touch, and gives me a weak smile before collapsing into my arms, gently sobbing, his face pressed against my chest.

I stumble back a bit at the weight of him, but regain my balance quickly, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him flush against me.

“You want to get back into bed?” I ask, pushing a curl off of Simon’s forehead.

All he can do is nod and cling helplessly to my shirt. 

“Come on then,” I say, ushering him across the room. I help him climb in bed, and he leans against the headboard, staring off into space. I pull the covers up over us and lay an arm around Simon’s shoulders. He scoots closer to me and leans against my side, and I run my fingers through his curls.

He cries for a long time. And I let him. It’s all I feel like I can do in this moment.

Eventually though, he wipes his tears away and meets my gaze.

“I can’t believe it,” he says. His voice is merely a whisper.

“Yeah. I can’t either.”

“That was my mother. My _mother_ . She came for me, when we were at Watford. I heard her all those years ago. My _mother_ , Baz…” His voice trails off.

“Yeah. It really was her, wasn’t it?”  
Simon nods. “She was even prettier than I imagined. Nice. Kind, as well. And she looked young. So young.”

“Yeah. She must’ve died young. Not long after she had you.” 

Simon’s quiet, so I say, “She loves you. Don’t forget that.”

“I could never.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then Simon asks, “D’you think my father will come for me? Whoever he is?”

“I don’t know, Simon. It’s hard to tell who moves on for good and who doesn’t.”

“Maybe he’ll come,” Simon says, his face scrunching up as he thinks. “Maybe he has something to say to me as well.”

“What would he have to say? ‘I hope you fulfilled all those prophecies made about you. Love you, son!’”

Good. That made him laugh.

He grins at me, and gives me a gentle push.

“I hope my father wouldn’t come back to lecture me on how I failed to save the World of Mages.”

“Imagine this-- your dead father comes back to insult you. Is that foreshadowing _my_ future? Possibly.”

“Your father wouldn’t come back to insult you,” Simon says.

“And yours won’t either,” I assure.

Another small period of silence ensues. And then I ask the question I’ve been meaning to ever since we learned it was Simon’s mother who came in our window.

“Are you alright, love?” 

There’s a worried look on my face. I can tell. But I don’t care. I just need to know if he’s okay.

Simon swallows and shakes his head, and starts crying again. “No, not really.”

My heart breaks yet again for this man I’ve come to love so fucking much.

He smiles at me despite the tears. “But, I will be. I’ll be okay.” 

I wish there was more I could do than hold Simon as he cries. I fucking wish I could bring people back from the dead. I’d bring back his mother and father. (And my mother, though, in this moment, that thought seems a bit selfish.)

If there was anything I could do to help Simon through this pain, I would do it. But, I know there’s not. 

That’s not how life works, and it’ll never be that way.

Pain doesn’t just disappear. There are ways to cope with pain and depression, but it never really goes away. 

I don’t expect Simon to be okay for a while.

He’s just met his mother, only to be ripped away from her merely minutes after they first met.

Simon has lived his whole life in the dark.

He didn’t know I was in love with him. He didn’t know the Mage was a fucking bastard who didn’t actually give a shit about what happened to his Chosen One. (I hope he went to Hell, the absolute wanker.)

He didn’t know who his parents were. The two most important people in Simon’s life were gone, missing. _Dead_. He would never get to know his parents, the people who were supposed to raise Simon and watch him live his life.

Instead, he got stuck in the fucking care homes because the Mage didn’t care enough to make sure he was watched and raised properly.

He grew up a fright, Simon did. Tattered clothes, torn trousers, and shoes with holes in the sole. Hair cut down to his scalp, buzzed off at the beginning of every summer. He was terribly thin. I could see his ribs at the start of the school year, before he ate dozens of scones.

I wonder how different Simon’s life would be if his parents were alive.

I bet they would have spoiled the hell out of him. Given him all his heart desired.

And I bet they would have loved him. They would make sure he knew he was loved, and that they would support him no matter what.

But, it also makes me wonder what kind of person Simon would be.

Would he be the same courageous fuck he is now? Willing to risk everything to keep people safe? Desperate to hold onto the things he had, to the people he loved, solely because he had nothing else to hold onto?

I like to think that Simon Snow would still be the good person I fell in love with all those years ago. Maybe, though, he wouldn’t doubt himself as much. Maybe he would recognize that people like him for him, not for his magic or the fact that he was the Chosen One. (I still tease him about that. He bloody hates it.)

It’s hard to tell what would’ve happened if Simon’s parents were alive. There are so many possibilities, it’s almost overwhelming to think about.

But I hope in every universe it ends like this. 

Us, together, married. Not just enemies, constantly at war. Something more than that.

It’s good to hope and dream and fantasize of what could be. But I think Simon wants to focus on what is. On the events that just occurred at three in the morning. 

Simon’s mother came for him. Came to tell him that she’s loved him since the day he was born, and that she still loves him, and that she’ll love him for all eternity.

I will, too. I’ll love him for her, and do what she can’t.

Simon isn’t okay.

His words are still ringing in my ear.

_“Are you alright, love?”_

_“No, not really.”_

He won’t be okay for quite some time, and that’s perfectly fine. I’ll be there every step of the way, holding his hand and guiding him through.

There’s something special about a mother’s love that no one can replace. Not even me. I’m not going to try to replace it, though. It’s special to Simon, and all I can do is be there when he needs a reminder of that love.

He’s still crying. And that’s okay. I’ll let him cry, and I’ll be there to wipe away the tears when he’s done.

I hear him sigh and a moment later he looks up at me, his eyes red and puffy. There are damp curls pressed against his forehead. I push them away, and he meets my gaze. 

There’s sadness behind his eyes, but he’s smiling nonetheless.

I find his hand under the cover and give it a squeeze, pulling him closer to my side, and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“That’s okay, love. You will be. We both will.”

**Author's Note:**

> a huge thank you to @Soultoast and @KrisRix for beta reading!


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